


Duplicate

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Fear, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 21:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17067428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Every family has its secrets, but secrets can only be buried for so long.





	Duplicate

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger Warnings for Rape/Non-Con.

“I’m just sayin’,” Dean says, raising his beer to his lips. “It’s too quiet. I need a case.”

“I think it’s nice,” you offer over the lip of your own brew. “You know, to just chill for a bit. To rest. We could all use it.”

“That,” Sam says, jabbing a long finger in your direction. “I agree with that.”

You laugh as Dean rolls his eyes, outnumbered once again. “Come on, babe, let’s enjoy doing nothing tonight.”

“Fine,” he concedes. “I gotta take take a leak first though.”

“Me too,” you say, suddenly reminded of your rapidly filling bladder.

Sam gives you both a look as you slide off your stools.

“What?” Dean asks, brows knitted.

“No…gross stuff. This is a bar.”

“Dude,” you laugh. “I’m close to pissing myself, and I’m  _so_  not into watersports.”

And with that, you turn on your heels, path set straight for the restrooms. Dean matches your stride-

“How do you even know what that is?”

“Internet’s a dark, dark place, my dude,” you say turning into the narrow corridor and shouldering the ladies’ room door open, leaving Dean shaking his head as you take your leave.

*****

Dean’s waiting for you as you open the door; slanted against the wall, arms crossed. You walk back to the table in comfortable silence, but then you both freeze in your tracks-

Sam’s still seated at the high-top table nursing his beer, but he’s not alone. He’s talking to what could pass as a  _carbon copy_  of Dean himself.

“The hell?” Dean breathes.

“Okay, I’ve had a few beers, but I’m not  _that_  drunk,” you add.

Sam notices your statued stances, sets his beer on the table and beckons you over with a waving hand, wild-eyed and bewildered.

“This is him,” Sam says as Dean eases into a stool across from his mirrored image, you next to him. “This is my brother, Dean.”

The man’s eyes noticeably widen, and then he’s extending his hand. “Dylan,” he introduces himself. “Dylan Wilson.”

Jesus, he even  _sounds_  like Dean.

Dean’s eyes are hard but he offers his own hand. “Hey,” he nods, curt. “Oh, this is my girlfriend-”

You cut him off, introduce yourself with a quick wave of your hand.

“Hey,” Dylan greets, green eyes sparkling just like…

“Wow,” Dean’s duplicate laughs, and holy  _hell_ , Dean must’ve been cloned at some point in his life, because even his goddamned  _teeth_  are the same. “This is really weird, man.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs a laugh that doesn’t at all reach his eyes. “Yeah, you’re tellin’ me.” The hunter blinks, then presses his lips together in thought. “So, uh, you wouldn’t happen to be from around here…would ya?”

“Originally yeah,” Dylan confirms with a bobbing nod. “But I grew up in Kentucky with my mom, Stephanie. Didn’t know my dad.” He nods, looks down at his beer.

“So what brought you back to Kansas?” Sam asks, eyes curious.

“Honestly? I’m just…kind of drifting. My mom died three years ago and I…I dunno. I just feel…lost.” He laughs then, dry. “Wow, that was an overshare. Sorry.”

“No worries,” Sam assures him, smile soft. “We’ve all been there.”

“Jesus Christ,” you suddenly blurt. “I mean, you guys  _have_  to be related!”

A heavy hand lands on your thigh, squeezes just above the knee; a warning. You quickly shut up.

“So, Dylan,” Dean starts. God, he’s using his interrogation tone. “You ever…experience anything weird? Y’know, strange dreams, visions…anyone in your family ever practice-”

Sam clears his throat loudly, gives Dean a pointed stare. “Forgive my brother, he’s - well, I guess he’s just a little freaked.”

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees, eyes wide and brows high. “I think we all are.”

Sams nods, pulls the napkin out from under his beer. “Need a pen,” he says, eyes ping-ponging around the table. You pull your purse off the back of your chair to your lap, delve a fishing hand around-

“Here,” you say, retrieving black ball-point, and slide it over. His scribbles his own number on the folded white square, then finger-slides it toward Dylan.

“Just in case…I dunno,” Sam stumbles, still processing. “Feels like you’re family,” he laughs.

“Yeah. Absolutely,” Dylan smiles. “Thanks, man.”

*****

“So get this.” Sam’s voice cuts through the sleepy growl of the Impala’s engine, scratches at your nerves. From behind Dean, you can see the blue-white glow of Sam’s laptop illuminating the smooth side of his jaw and cheek, sifting through the strands of his hair.

“What?” Dean grunts, head pivoting toward his brother.

“Dylan was born at Lawrence General Hospital.”

“No shit?”

“On January 24th-”

_“No.”_

“1979.”

_What the fuck?_

“What the hell, man?”

“I dunno,” Sam mumbles, fingertips tapping at the keyboard. “Whoa…”

You scootch to the center of the backseat, lean forward until the tops of your shoulders press against the back of the bench seat.

“What is it?” You ask, stretching your neck to peer at the computer screen.  
“Ok, so - I’s able to hack into the hospital’s digital archives, and…” He makes a sound, a kind of speechless gasp.

“Sam?” Dean rumbles. “What is it?”

“Um. Mom gave birth to twins. One died.”

_What._

And just like that, the atmosphere in the car thickens, and no one speaks for a good minute.

“Are…are you  _sure?”_ Dean’s voice is strangled; taut.

“Yeah, man. Says right here:  _Mary Sandra Campbell, admitted 5:18 a.m….husband John…twin males…one deceased._ Jesus.”

“Why the hell didn’t Dad tell us about this?!” Dean’s voice is frantically loud, and you think you can feel the vibration of it mingling with the grumbling engine.

“I dunno,” Sam mumbles soft. “I guess he didn’t wanna dig up any painful memories.”

“Okay, but-”

“Dude.”

_Oh god. What now?_

“Stephanie Wilson - Dylan’s mom? She was a nurse at the hospital at the time…Jesus Christ.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, smooths it down the back of his neck. “Dylan’s your twin, Dean. Mom didn’t lose a child. He was kidnapped.”

*****

The lights of the garage are harsh, and you’re squinting before you even get the car door open. Three heavy door slams resound around the large room, and god you’re drowsy. You’re dragging several feet behind the brothers as they make their way down the short flight of stairs, and you’ve got a death grip on the metal railing as you descend.

By the time you get to the bottom step, you’re good and wobbly.  _How much did you drink?_

Dean’s reaching for you now, and his voice is faint as he says your name; distorted, like you’re underwater. He hooks a burly arm around your waist, holds you steady as your knees threaten to buckle.

“You okay?”

“Yeah…” Your voice sounds weird. “I think…I think I had one too many. I just…I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Okay. Yeah.” He grunts a little as he lifts you in his arms; on hand holding you under your thighs, the other curled up over the side of your ribs. You get your arms loose around his neck. Snuggle into the soft warmth of his black and blue flannel as he carries you away.

*****

 _Fuck._  Your head pounds, pulses against your skull, and it feels like your eyes are too deep in your head. You can’t be  _that_  hungover.

“Rise and _shine…”_

Your head lulls a bit against your pillow at the sound of Dean’s voice. You move to sit up-

Only for your wrists to be met with resistance. You look left, then right-

To find your self restrained in black leather cuffs, metal chains snaking over the sides of the bed, clattering against the wooden frame as you jerk against them.

_The hell?_

You lift your head to discover your bare ankles bound as well - and that you’re clad only in your bra and panties.

_What. The. Hell?_

Your eyes flit up to Dean, who’s leaning against the closed door, arms folded over his broad chest.

“Dean,” you grumble, voice hoarse from sleep. “The fuck is this?”

He chuckles, pushes himself off the door, and walks to the bed.

“You saved their lives, y’know.”

_Shit. Dylan._

“I’s gonna slit their throats and be done with it.” He smiles a smile that knots your stomach, and eases himself down on the bed. “But then I saw  _you.”_

Your blood goes cold, and you can feel the color drain from your skin.

Shit. The beer. The bastard drugged you.

“Why-” you start, but then have to swallow. “Why are you doing this?” There’s a tremble to your voice that you just can’t bother to mask.

His jaw ticks at your question, lips twitch the same way Dean’s do when he’s angry. “Because they took what should have been mine.”

“What? What’re you talking about?”

“Especially  _him_ ,” he says, lips curled in a snarl as he ignores your question. “He gets to be the  _hero_ , gets the girl,” he adds, flicking a hand toward you. “Me? I don’t get  _shit_.”

“Sam and Dean were forced into hunting as  _children_ , they’ve gone through unbelievable trials and tribulations…They don’t live charmed lives. Not by a long shot.”

“They had a  _father_ ,” Dylan spits, eyes blazing. “My  _father_ -”

“That wasn’t their fault! Dylan, you were kidnapped-”

“Think I don’t know that?” he says, voice icy. “Think  _Mom_  didn’t pay for it?”

_Oh god._

“You killed her,” you whisper, the realization fogging your brain with unbridled panic.

“You’re a sharp one,” he grins. “I can see why my brother likes you.”

“Dylan, please…you don’t have to do this. Let me go.”

He twists toward you a little, gets a hand on your shin, and glides it up…

“Keep beggin’, honey. I like it.”

Your skin prickles and crawls under his touch, and you have to swallow down a sob.

“Where are they?” you ask, voice small. “Where’s Sam and Dean?”

“They’re fine,” he says quickly. “For now.”

“Please don’t hurt them,” you beg, voice tight and eyes pleading.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about ‘em,” Dylan says, malice darkening the olive of his eyes.

And that’s when you start to shake, hunting-practiced grit crumbling under the sheer terror of the situation.

“Oh hey, shh…” His hand is smoothing up your bare thigh now, fingertips denting into the soft flesh. “I’m not gonna kill ya - if that helps.”

That does  _not_  help.

“Just wanna have a little fun is all. You can even pretend I’m him.”

A wild spark of bravery blooms inside you - “Don’t fucking touch me!-”

You hear the crack of a heavy palm against your cheek before you feel the white-hot pain of it, and the force of the slap snaps your head to the side. He gets a hard grip on your jaw and jerks your face towards him.

“That’s enough back talk.”

He swings a leg over you, sets his weight on your belly, and pulls a small knife from his back pocket.

“Stay still, now.”

You hold your breath, terrified, as he wedges the blade under the band of your bra, between the cups, and jerks back, easily slicing through the material. He tosses the knife somewhere out of your field of vision, and sweeps the remnants of the garment to the sides; rough hands gliding and squeezing over your now-exposed breasts.

“Nice,” he breathes, one hand sliding up to close around your throat.

“You gonna be a good girl for me?”

You nod frantically against his grip. They’ll come for you. The Winchesters will save you.

Dylan releases you and scoots down, knees his way between your spread thighs. The knife is back, clutched in his big hand, and you just can’t stop  _shaking_ -

“Easy, babydoll,” Dylan rumbles as he fits the cold steel in the hot space between your cunt and crotch of your panties. “Don’t wanna nick ya here.”

You take a deep breath, head pressed deep into the pillow, eyes clamped shut as you will your muscles to relax.

_The guys will bust in any moment now…_

You hear the rip, feel the elastic give way as Dylan slices through the last literal shred of your modesty before it leaves you entirely. The combined sensation of the cool bunker air and Dylan’s hungry gaze turns your stomach.

Your hips jerk when his fingers brush at your folds, but you don’t dare open your eyes - you don’t want to see the sick pleasure etched across your not-boyfriend’s face.

The mattress shifts, and then something hot and wet meets your cunt-

Your eyes snap open then, and you think you might actually be sick when you get your head up to look down-

His ravenous gaze is hooked on yours, mouth hidden underneath the apex of the broad V of your thighs. He wiggles his tongue, and heat curls in your belly when the wet muscle parts your folds, dips down to rasp over your opening, then up to your clit.

Your body is just confused, you decide. It thinks it’s Dean doing this to you, thinks it’s Dean’s tongue swirling wet between your legs.

“No…” It’s just a breath, a whisper; you doubt it even met the man’s ears as he starts to work a finger into you.

Goddamnit, it feels good. It feels  _really_  good, even through the ice-cold fear thrumming through your veins.

Thick lips latch onto your clit as a second finger slicks inside, and your nails bite into the flesh of your palms when he starts to pump them in and out.

You try to say no again, but all that comes out is a low groan bubbling from the back of your throat. He grunts, then hums against your flesh, gets a hand on your belly when your hips start to buck.

Your body is confused, it doesn’t actually want this.  _Any minute, they’ll come in any minute._

He’s scissoring his fingers now, working you open, and the wet sound of it is absolutely sickening.

You’re relieved when he finally pulls away, and you close your eyes again when he slips his glistening fingers into his mouth, closes the full lips around them…

“Mmm…” he moans. “Knew you’d taste good.”

A creak of the bedsprings, a metallic jingle of a belt buckle, and you’re more desperate than you’ve ever been. You wait for the sound of boots rasping against tile…

But nothing.

It’s a horrible thing; to be so helpless, so defenseless spread out against your will like this. He said he wasn’t going to kill you, but there’s a dark part of you that really hopes he’ll change his mind.

You’re tempted to provoke him, he’s got that knife…

But you’re no coward, you can’t let yourself check out before tearing this monster apart-

He’s nudging at your entrance, hot and hard. Hot breath at your lips  _pops_  your eyes open.

It’s…it’s  _Dean_  hovering over you. The dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the part of his plush lips…

The only difference is the slight narrow of his eyes, nearly imperceptible curl at the corner of his mouth.

His lips pull taut in a broad, gleaming grin as he pushes into you, long lashes fluttering as he sinks into your tight heat.  

It’s not that you aren’t accustomed to his size, he feels like he’s at least in the same ballpark as Dean - but you’re tensing and tightening, subconsciously trying to push him out, but he just keeps  _going_.

His t-shirt is still on, and you can feel it brush across your nipples as he slicks out…and back in.

_Any minute. They’ll bust into the room any minute now._

Dylan doesn’t ease himself in this time, he  _SLAMS_  in, and god it burns, even with your wetness. He huffs a laugh against your mouth, and drops his weight against you until his cotton-covered chest mashes against your breasts.

Your breath catches in your throat as he starts a  _brutal_  rhythm, thrusts deep and fluid, heavy hips slapping painfully against yours-

It hurts, but there’s a deep pleasure to it. Confused. Your body is just confused. It doesn’t want this.

Your eyes are screwed shut, and you’re desperately searching for a place inside your mind, a safe place, somewhere no one can find you-

He gets a tight hand around your throat,  _squeezes_ -

“Look at me.”

You hate that it’s Dean’s voice, hate that your body can’t tell the difference.

Your eyes crack open, and he squeezes harder, fucks faster-

And you’re hot and cold all over as your belly hardens, cunt tightens in unwanted pleasure.

“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he pants, so close that his lips brush against yours.

You’re crying out with every savage plunge, helpless to do anything but take his thickness spearing into you. You clench around him, your cunt greedily,  _eagerly_ latching onto him.

Dylan takes advantage of your gaping mouth, slips his thumb inside to swipe at your tongue before bringing it down to your clit.

Fresh heat sizzles through you at the new contact and then sweeping the wet pad  _over-and-over-and-over-_

Your vision whites out, and static fills your ears as you come around him, muscles convulsing as you buck up into him-

He doesn’t slow down, keeps pistoning in and out of your twitching cunt, prolonging your climax and until it hurts.

And then he curls, goes rigid and  _growls_  as he shoves in so  _deep_ -

You whimper when your belly floods with liquid warmth, wincing as he slowly, gingerly pulls out.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice raw. “That was so fuckin’ good. Thanks, babydoll.” He presses a chaste kiss to your clammy cheek before pulling back to his knees to tuck himself back into his jeans, still breathing hard as he fastens his belt.

“It’s been fun,” Dylan says once he’s off the bed. “But I’m gonna hafta jet.” He walks to the side of the bed, leans over you to tuck a chunk of your damp hair behind your ear.

“They’ll get outta those ropes soon, and then they’ll get ya outta your mess.” He chuckles at his choice of words, green eyes darting down to the come still oozing thick from your entrance. He gets a hand on your cheek, tilts your face toward his. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back for more.”

Then with a wink, he’s gone.

*****

You’re on the verge of unconsciousness when the brothers finally do barge into Dean’s bedroom. You hear their voices, but it’s nonsense. Sam leaves the room on his brother’s orders. Dean frees you, but you can’t look at his face. Not yet. Hell, you’re not even sure if it’s really him.

By the third day, you know it’s him. You know it’s him because he can still barely look at you, so racked with guilt that doesn’t,  _shouldn’t_  belong to him.

But he’s there to help you pick up the pieces, there to rock you through your nightmares as you sob into his shoulder every night.

He’s there in the bathroom three weeks later, holding the discarded pregnancy test he’d found in the trash.

It’s positive.


End file.
